Arriving in Vegas is always an adventure. This time, it turned a little bumpy as, believe it or not, a thunderstorm awaited on our approach to this desert oasis. The bumpy landing ended with a smooth enough transition into the airport and soon I was among the throngs of humanity at McCarran awaiting bags.

No one picked me up. No one welcomed me. And I waited in the humongous taxi line like everyone else until finally pitched into the back of a cab and sent scurrying off to my “resort” destination.

I’m smart enough to know a good cab driver in Vegas and he recognized someone who’d been here before, so he avoided the Strip and approached my hotel from the back, getting me there quickly and efficiently, earning himself a decent tip. My room got an upgrade and soon I was online to see if I could procure an ass.

Coming from the East Coast makes the time thing a little challenge, although jet lag always seems to be a little easier going back. The wet weather helped with the transition from the humid East to the desert West. But still I wasn’t up for running up and down the Strip for a fuck.

The usual collection of folks I’d already lined things up with didn’t seem all that available in that moment — surprise, surprise — including one who will be the subject of a future blog entry (“My Las Vegas ‘Catfish'”). It’s odd how that whole thing doesn’t work out.

I was tired. I’d ordered room service and I didn’t feel like chasing for ass. I’d just about decided to quit when a little blond bear pinged me on my ad from Craigslist. And it so happened, he mentioned he was in my hotel and was full service.

Generally, one cannot put “bareback” bluntly in ads on Craigslist ads, as usually some condom Nazis go fucking bonkers and begin flagging the shit out of it and the ad goes down (if you include a photo especially). Sometimes you can slip in “bb” or “uninhibited” as hints but dare not include a photo as it raises the ire of the “safe sex only” police.

So I had not gone through the song-and-dance to determine whether he might or might not take me raw. But tonight, as I attempted to swallow a grilled rubber chicken sandwich from the hotel, I decided to get to the point.

“You want to get bred?” I wrote back in a single-line e-mail.

“Fuck yea,” he said. “Here’s my room number.”

“Be there in five minutes,” I responded.

And I knocked in five minutes.

His photo had obviously been taken the moment before he’d sent it, it was that fresh. I am not repulsed by bears — even ones like this one, with hair growing out of every inch of his body. He was a little shorter, a little younger, a bit beefier and stood behind the hotel door practically naked. His fur could have used a bit more care, but he was clean. He sucked me hard then stood, hiking one leg up on the bed and lining my cock up against his pink hole.

I slid inside.

The sweet warmth of an ass is, well, nothing like anything else. That’s why I love topping so much, I guess. That and the energy that soon overtook me as I picked up pace, began grunting and went to town, focused on using his ass for one thing.

As I slid in and out, my ass coated with his spit, a little lube, his ass juice and whatever else was down there. I took out the frustration of a four-hour flight and a day of travel. I began really fucking his ass harder and harder. Then I reached that point of no return and crested over the edge, went down the hill toward my goal.

“FUCK!” I grunted. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it!” he said obediantly.

“Be explicit!” I said, as I pushed his head onto the bed and forced him into a strange doggie style with knees up but head down.

And with those words and a few more violent thrusts into that hairy blond ass, I let go the frustration of the day into that ass. My cock throbbed, releasing a flood a cum in wave after wave of gushing white sticky stuff that I slammed deeper into his raw ass.

I pulled out with a pop and his ass began to leak immediately, but he sat down on the floor, turn around and licked my cock clean before I zipped up to head to my room.

My next destination happens to be sunny Florida, quick on the heels of California. Somewhat polar opposites, I got a quick stop off at home before heading south. No big cities in this visit, I’ll be along the East Coast.

Traveling can be a bitch. But maybe I’ll get elite status on an airline. Finally. Not that it will do much good in today’s cattle world.

* * *

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I’ve been saving up my cum. My4½-hour flight from the East Coast on a cramped plane sitting on heavy balls leaves me a little anxious. Before getting on the flight, I’d posted a couple of Craigslist ads for good measure.

I arrive in San Francisco to be greeted by few responses. Very few, in fact. One ad netted me no responses whatsoever.

Grindr and Scruff are pumping on my phone while I wait for my luggage and car then make my way to the hotel in the East Bay. Once settled in, I’m up on BarebackRT and Craigslist with fresh ads.

My car’s in the shop. Can you come pick me up at my sister’s house? And park around the corner.

Do you have a cock pic? (Sent) How big is that? (7 inches cut) How about another face pic? (Sent) Nice. (Let’s fuck) Can I see a body pic first?

I’d love to have you fuck me, but could you help me out with gas? Say about $100. (Damn, that’s a big tank.)

I know you found me on BBRT, but could we use a condom just this first time? (No.)

How long are you here? (A few days.) How about Tuesday night? It’s better for me. (It’s not better for my balls.)

In other words, no one actually wanted to fuck. So I wake up this morning with blue balls and no release. Fucking hell! I didn’t expect paradise but where are all my Bareback Brotherhood men? Were we all watching the “Survivor: South Pacific” finale last night?